From the Ashes
by Khalee
Summary: Norway, Denmark and Sweden struggle to cope with the aftermath of the Treaty of Kiel. Historical AU. Rated M for dark themes and sexual abuse. Pairings: SuNor, DenNor, mention of SuFin.
1. Part One

Author's note: I do not own Hetalia.

Part One

_August 14, 1814_

A heavy mind was not the best travel companion, Lukas knew, and yet he felt no relief when the voice of the Swedish ambassador broke through the barrier of his thoughts.

"Lord Bondevik, we're approaching the gates of Moss." He had spoken in Norwegian as a sign of good will, but the undesired attempt at communication and the other man's thick accent grated on Lukas' already tense nerves, so he snapped back in flawless Swedish.

"We're on what can still be called my own soil so I can very well find my way around without foreign help, my Lord Ambassador." The Swedish nobleman raised a surprised eyebrow but chose not to answer back and urged his horse forward, to put some distance between himself and the Norwegian personification.

Lukas smiled bitterly when he found himself alone again in the midst of the Swedish armed escort, who surrounded him in a blatantly large circle, disconcerted as they were by the Norwegian nation's cold eyes and scornful demeanor. He felt neither the duty, nor the inclination to act even remotely polite, the pain for each and every victim of war still burning on his soul, doubly so now that he was left to bear the burden alone. He had followed his soldiers on the battlefield and fought at their side, almost blinded by dust and gunpowder and sweat, the deaths of his countrymen so close around him hurting like chunks of flesh ripped from his own body. Still, each of his bullets stroke true. It was a hopeless war, he had known from the beginning, his army too small and ill-prepared to face a hardened warrior like Sweden, and yet a necessary step towards changing his country's fate. When Denmark had confessed (between a colourful string of curses against Sweden and England and France and everyone else involved in his demise) that he was forced to give him up under Swedish rule, Lukas had known that the time was right to prove to the world that he was not a commodity to exchange hands as his stronger neighbours saw fit. He had left Copenhagen that very night, without looking back, without allowing himself to think about what he was leaving behind - Matthias, raging in his own chambers, undoubtedly smashing some unfortunate pieces of furniture as he was prone to do on such occasions, and Emil, sleeping obliviously. He could not find the strength to bid farewell to either. _ It does not matter, ten, fifty, one hundred years from now nothing will matter. _This had been his mantra ever since.

The August sun burned Lukas' eyes mercilessly once they left the shelter of the forest road, to make the descent towards the town gates. Moss was a busy town, teeming with both merchants and travelers who used the numerous inns as a welcome nightly shelter during their journeys between Copenhagen and Christiania. Lukas himself had visited the town not long before, in happier times. He and Matthias had let their horses roam free in the tall grass by the edge of the forest and stopped to take in the view, smiling at Emil as the Icelandic boy jumped in excitement and pointed at the large masts standing tall next to the rooftops of the harbor buildings. Matthias had ruffled Emil's hair, his eyes glinting mischievously as he began yet another tall tale about Viking raids. _ It's in the past, it does not matter, not anymore. _Lukas forced all thoughts of sapphire eyes and silver locks from his mind, and spurred his horse to a gallop, drowning the Swedes behind him in a cloud of dust.

* * *

On a normal day, the streets of Moss would be filled with people hurrying to and fro, merchants loudly advertising their wares, pony-pulled carts rattling against the cobblestones and children playing in the dust and generally getting under everyone's feet. But not today. Wary against the foreign soldiers who had arrived by dozens both to protect their countries' official envoys and to quell any sign of Norwegian rebellion, the inhabitants of Moss, either local or transitory, kept to the taverns or to the safety of their own homes. Lukas himself was ushered inside the gates with not as much as a second glance from the keepers, who, at the sight of his well-tailored but war-worn clothes and of the Swedish soldiers surrounding him, deemed him nothing more than yet another captured Norwegian nobleman, brought in for prisoner exchange or for punishment. As they rode further into the heart of the town, among groups of soldiers flaunting their shiny uniforms, Lukas acknowledged one by one the nations assembled to witness the accords. Not that he needed such mundane evidence, for thanks to the uncanny sixth sense that all nations incarnate shared, he had been able to discern their presence as soon as he approached the gates. Sweden, proud and strong, coming to claim his war prize; France, the unintended cause of his current predicament; England, gloating over his old enemies' downfall; and finally Denmark, the one he both dreaded and longed to meet.

Following the lead of his escort, Lukas stopped in front of a bland looking building surrounded by even more armed soldiers, and one lone civilian sitting on the steps, whom he recognized as one of his own clerks, a tall, red-haired man who went by the name of Anders. The man rose hurriedly and made his way towards Lukas, taking hold of the horse's reins while the Norwegian personification came down from the saddle.

"It's such a relief to see you safe, my Lord," the taller man spoke, guiding Lukas towards the entrance. "You are the last one to arrive and we were worried something might have befallen you on the way."

Lukas nodded politely in reply. "How many of our people are here? How have you been holding on?"

Anders sighed. "If you were expecting a crowd, you'll be disappointed, my Lord. They allowed no more than a handful of ministers and their guards, like they're afraid we'd start a mob. We've been in town for three days already waiting for everyone to get here, and believe me it's not been easy to watch all those Swedes and Englishmen strut around as if they owned the place. Though," the man grinned and bent to whisper in Lukas' ear, "they've got quite ruffled since yesterday when that obnoxious Dane finally made it, as soon as he set foot in Moss he found the biggest tavern and almost drank his weight in beer, it took Lord Oxenstierna and three of his footmen to drag him out..."

Lukas laughed to himself as he pushed the door open. He never thought he'd say it, but thank God for Matthias and his antics.

"I trust that my Lord Bondevik knows that this is not the right time nor place for petty gossip," the Swedish ambassador's voice sounded behind him. Lukas cringed inwardly, but said nothing. Let the man have his revenge if he so wished. "Perhaps my Lord would like to change his clothes into something more suitable for the occasion?"

Lukas shrugged. "If the time is so short as my Lord Ambassador suggests, perhaps we can dispose with such conveniences, for after all, everyone here must already know that I've been summoned straight from the battlefield. I would be obliged if my Lord Ambassador could show me the way." Let the others boast their decorations and feathered hats, if they were ready to dismiss the war so easily, Lukas would be there to remind them. With his head high and his back straight, he stepped into the meeting room, cluttered with mortals and nations alike.

Lukas recognized immediately the small group of Norwegians, but before he could advance towards them a disheveled Matthias grabbed his shoulders and pinned him painfully against the wall, oblivious of the mortals surrounding them.

"You're late, Norge," he slurred. Lukas winced. The Dane's breath stank of cheap beer and the dark rings under his eyes bore witness of last night's debauchery. The Norwegian nation wanted nothing more than to kick the other in the ribs and yell at him until his ears bled, but his pride would never allow him to break down in front of a roomful of mortals.

"Let me go, you idiot," he hissed instead. "You'll suffocate me with your foul breath before I can actually attend the meeting where my and my people's future is being decided." Lukas had been hurt the most when learned that the Dane had taken it upon himself to surrender Norway to the Swedes without asking not even for one word of advice - let alone permission - from the Norwegian personification. And for once, Matthias picked up the undertone in the other nation's voice, for he released the shorter man and lifted his arms in defeat.

"Danmark. Sit. Down. Now." The Swedish nation's deep voice barked angrily next to them, making both men give a start of surprise. Too engrossed in each other's presence, neither of them had seen or felt the Swede approaching. Berwald looked as commanding as ever, his green-blue eyes staring Matthias down from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. The Dane clenched his fists and spat next to the Swede's impeccably clean boots, before turning his back and heading to his seat in the midst of the Danish delegation.

Berwald put a hand on the Norwegian's shoulder. "Come," he said quietly and lead him towards a window conveniently placed in the proximity of the large central table, which was covered in maps and documents, and around which the mortals had already began to congregate. As nations, neither of them was required to speak or to intervene during the incoming proceedings; they could share their counsel, their experience valued by their governments, but it the end it was the mortals who had the final say. And on occasions such as this, when all was already said and done and the papers were waiting to be signed, their presence was only needed as silent symbols of the nations involved.

Neither Berwald nor Lukas was a man of many words, so the Norwegian leaned quietly against the window sill, observing his surroundings. The French envoy took his place at the head of the table and began to read the treaty with a steady tone. Lukas did not bother to listen, he already knew the terms and he considered only one of them relevant. The attempt at war had given his diplomats more ground for negotiation, and thanks to their efforts, Norway would be treated as part of a union, rather than spoils of war as the original treaty that Matthias had signed at Kiel stated. Granted, the land would still be governed by the Swedish king and Lukas himself would have to report to the Swedish personification, but Norway was a conquered land no more.

The continuous flow of French words made Lukas drowsy. He was tired, so tired, all the months of life on battlefields had taken their toll and the uncomfortable journey on horseback under the August sun had done nothing to improve the situation. Denmark's presence in the same room was making him jittery, and the fact that he could feel the other man's eyes boring into him like daggers did not help one bit. Lukas sighed and half-closed his eyes. He did not really hate the Dane, on the contrary, deep inside his heart he knew that he cared for Matthias more than he wanted to admit even to himself. Thus the Dane's willingness to give him up, breaking a five hundred years bond, had hurt Lukas all the more and lead to a deep grudge that could not easily be dismissed.

Lukas must have fallen asleep at some point, his worn body getting the best of him, for he was startled awake by Berwald's voice. "It's our turn now." Lukas blinked several times to clear his eyes. And indeed, on the table documents were spread and quills were being dipped in ink. Matthias was already approaching the table, his jaw firmly set. Lukas watched him grab a quill, sign the four papers with rapid strokes and throw the quill back on the table, without any regard for the expensive cloth in which it was covered. Lukas stepped forward and picked up the quill abandoned by the Dane (it had already left a considerable stain) and wrote his name next to Matthias'. He passed the quill on to Berwald and turned around, to retake his place by the window; but his way was cut by England and France who, as witnessing nations, needed to put down their signature next. Francis' expression looked strained and he refused to meet Lukas' eyes, but Arthur was staring at the Norwegian with a triumphant grin. The Viking age still irked him fiercely and he wasted no opportunity to gloat over the Nordic nations' every misfortune.

"Oh how are the mighty fallen," Arthur quoted smugly. As the leader of the first invasion on English land, and of countless other ruthless attacks, Norway was his own personal nemesis. Lukas stared back with impenetrable indigo eyes. _It does not matter. Let the enemies mock and scorn, for the wheel of fortune turns round and round and soon my time will come again. _

"And from the ashes of war they will rise again." Nobody was more surprised than Lukas at the sound of Berwald's words, amazed that Berwald, of all people, had cared enough to put England in his place. The Swede cupped his shoulder again and stared Arthur down, until the English personification lowered his eyes and moved sideways, to allow the two Nordics to pass. "Your presence is no longer needed here," Berwald spoke quietly. "I arranged for an escort to take you to our inn, try to get some rest for tomorrow morning we are embarking for Stockholm."

Lukas' throat went dry. He had nursed the hope that he would be allowed to take residence in Christiania, but seemingly he would be kept on a very short leash, at least for a while. Angry at being dismissed, but knowing that it was useless to argue, he simply nodded and made for the door. From the corner of his eye he could see Matthias on the other side of the room, mirroring his movements. The last thing he needed right now was another confrontation with the Dane, so taking advantage of his proximity to the exit, he rushed out and slammed the door shut. Aware that he was acting like a child, and yet unable to do otherwise, he ran down the stairs, two steps at a time, and did not stop until he found himself outside, out of breath.

Three Swedish soldiers were waiting for him, one of them holding the reins of the horse he had ridden earlier. Lukas drew his breath and approached the small group, taking the reins from the soldier's outstretched hand. But before he could mount up in the saddle, the doors burst noisily open and Matthias rushed to his side.

"Norge, wait..." Lukas ignored him and took his place in the saddle. "Norge, stop!" Lukas hit the horse's side, but Matthias grasped his boot in an iron grip, preventing him from moving forward.

Lukas looked down at the Dane. In the summer light he looked even more worn out, his forehead deeply creased and his eyes sunken. "What do you want?" Lukas snapped.

"You left so fast that night Norge, you never gave me the chance to explain. You were not there, you did not see them fighting over our land like wolves, they would have ripped both you and me apart if I had not given you up willingly, all of you. They would have taken Island..."

Lukas saw red at the mentioning of his little brother and glared at the Dane fiercely. "You are a hot-headed fool Matthias, and you know it. If you had taken me with you that day maybe everything would have gone differently and Emil would not have even been brought up."

Matthias let go of his leg and took a step back. "I've made many mistakes in this war that I'm not proud of, but believe me Norge, I had no choice this time. Berwald is strong and can keep you safe, would you rather have your land split between England and Russia?" He took a deep breath and fell to his knees. "Please don't hate me Lukas..."

Lukas dug his nails into his palms strong enough to draw blood. Seeing the arrogant Danish nation begging like this, in front of mortals no less, was breaking his heart but his wounded pride was stronger.

"Make sure Island is safe, Dane, for one day I will be free and I will make you pay dearly should any harm befall Emil while under your care." Without one last look at the kneeling nation, he spurred his horse forward. _This is the only thing that still matters, and yet it's lost to me.._

TBC


	2. Part Two

Part Two

Such documents as treaties and alliances are mortal conventions, meant to bind them under the law of the written word, for mortals have great faith and believe themselves safe under the shelter of carefully signed papers.

Nations know better.

Stronger than any writ of conquest devised by mortals stands the physical bond between the personifications. As dictated by their innate instinct since the beginning of time, the nations know that nothing can keep countries united until their personifications had laid together, be it as equal allies or as conqueror and conquest. The nations incarnate are the land and soul of their people, and without this act any alliance would shatter like frail glass and the defeated would rebel at the slightest chance.

Having lived for centuries as a conquered nation, Lukas was well aware of what the newly signed treaty implied and was not looking forward to it in the least. In their wild Viking days he had many times shared his bed willingly with both the Swede and the Dane so he was no stranger to Berwald's body, but somehow the thought of the Swede's touch repulsed him. He had been adverse to this union from the very beginning, and every fiber of his being was screaming against that final deed that would deprive his country of its last shred of independence. For a few moments he considered pleading with Berwald to not go through with it, but he had no hope that the stronger nation would comply. Overlooking this tradition was unheard of, unless the nations were very young in body, as it had been with Iceland, whom Lukas had found while just a child and whom he had brought up like a little brother.

Mulling over his dark thoughts, he almost failed to notice when his escort reined up in front of what he recognized as one of the best furnished inns in town. Being informed that Berwald's attendant was waiting for him inside, Lukas dismounted and surrendered his reins. The large building was bustling with activity, both on the outside and on the inside, but before Lukas could ask himself how on bloody Earth he was supposed to recognize the Swedish attendant in the throng of equally tall, equally blonde men, a middle-aged man dressed in Swedish uniform approached him respectfully.

"Lord Bondevik?" Lukas nodded. "Please follow me." They mounted a flight of stairs and crossed a long corridor to a more secluded part of the inn. When they finally stopped, the attendant removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, handing Lukas the key afterwards. "There is a warm bath waiting for you, my Lord, and a meal can be brought to your room should you wish so."

Lukas had not eaten a morsel since that morning, but felt no desire for food. "That will not be necessary," he informed the man and pushed the door open. He found himself in a lavishly furnished room. The rug under his feet was soft and pleasantly colored in hues of blue and green, the same tones reflected in the elegant wallpaper. Right in front of him stood a large bed, its woodwork carved with intricate patterns and covered with a woven bedspread, on which a change of clothes was waiting. Judging by the size and cutting Lukas realized they had been left for his own use. The bed was flanked by a polished desk under the open window, and by a dressing table complete with a large mirror against the opposite wall. An open door revealed white tiles and part of a large bathtub. The room appeared already lived in; several stacks of papers laid on the desk, a well-worn leather trunk stood in a corner and what looked like pieces of Berwald's uniform hung from some hooks in the wall. Lukas gritted his teeth. He was not going to get a room of his own, it was plain to see.

"Subtle, Berwald, very subtle," he muttered. He drew his fingers through his long bangs, at a loss of what to do. And then a thought struck him. He was going to need some liquid courage if he were to pull this night through. He went back out, slamming the door shut behind him, and retraced his steps to the common room, pushing his way to the wooden counter behind which several promising bottles glistened and a large barrel stood tall. The innkeeper, a rosy-cheeked woman in her late forties, greeted him with a smile.

"What can I do for you, sir?" she asked.

"I need something to drink," Lukas breathed.

"Certainly sir, we've just brought in some lovely beer..." Lukas remembered the beer smell that had lingered on Matthias' breath and his stomach churned.

"No, not beer." His eyes searched the shelves and spotted a bottle filled with a clear drink. Vodka. This would do nicely.

"I will take that," he pointed, and the innkeeper nodded, reaching for a small glass. Lukas stopped her. "You did not understand, I want the whole bottle." He ignored her surprised and disapproving gaze as he counted the kroner. He knew that in spite of his several hundred years long life he looked young, very young, barely in his twenties, and that the otherwise kind woman was taking him for some depraved youth, but at that point he could not care less about the mortal's opinion.

Carrying his purchase carefully in one hand, he returned to his (and Berwald's) room. For a moment he nursed the idea of locking the door, but he knew it was pointless. Berwald had undoubtedly a key of his own, and he was strong enough to break any door down, should the need arise.

Letting himself slip to the floor, Lukas leant with his back against the bed and took the first mouthful of the burning liquid.

* * *

It was late in the evening that Berwald finally managed to excuse himself from the day's proceedings. Such gatherings annoyed him to no end; it was no easy task to keep civil several nations gathered in the same room, each nursing their own ancient grudges. He had been several times on the verge of giving the Dane a black eye, mostly after he had disappeared only to return fifteen minutes later with a foul mood. Berwald sighed. He was grateful that Lukas at least had seemed tame. He knew better than most nations that behind his blank expression the Norwegian was hiding a very short temper and that all things considered, Lukas had been the most likely to blow up.

Berwald could have asked to have his horse brought, but he chose to walk instead. He needed to clear his thoughts, and knowing that Lukas was waiting in their room put him in no hurry to get back. For the first time ever he had felt uneasy around the smaller Nordic, and thus had come to question the wisdom of taking Lukas in. Granted, after having been forced to surrender Finland to the Russian Empire he had raged for weeks on end, and had watched the Dane and his little family with envy, coveting it for his own. No, in truth he wanted Tino back, but he knew that it could not be accomplished, at least not yet. Ivan was too strong a foe. So, in his loneliness, he had set his eyes on Lukas, and when the unexpected opportunity to annex Norway had arisen, he had urged his king to go through. Yet now, when the fate of the Norwegian entity was in his hands, Berwald hesitated. He knew that whatever he would say and do that night would set the pace for whatever relationship the two of them would have in the future.

With this thought in his mind, he stopped in front of his room and took a deep breath. Careful not to startle Lukas, he knocked two times and pushed the door open.

The first thing that struck him was the strong smell of alcohol. His eyes widened when he saw the Norwegian entity gazing out the window, still wearing his road-dirtied clothes, his back ramrod straight, with a half-finished bottle in his hand. By the looks of it, Lukas had chosen his poison well. Vodka. Berwald detested the vile drink ever since Tino had been taken from him, and had smashed all the bottles still left in his house during one night of madness, for they were nothing but another reminder of the greedy Russian.

Berwald closed the door slowly behind him and took a step towards the motionless Norwegian.

"Lukas, why..." The cornered and yet defiant look that Lukas threw him was enough to make him understand. "Do you find the thought of being with me so hard, that you needed to numb yourself in such a vile way?"

A short chuckle escaped the smaller nation's lips. "Hard? Hard, you say? The right word is unbearable, and even so it would not describe even one tenth of what I feel right now."

Whether it was the smell of the hated drink, Lukas' scorn, his own wounded pride or all of them combined, Berwald did not know, but he felt his patience snap and being replaced by an anger he could not quite control. He strode forward and backhanded Lukas sharply against the side of his head, right where golden strands of hair were held back by a cross-shaped pin to reveal white, porcelain skin, which began immediately to bruise. The hit had been strong enough to send him reeling to the floor, but Lukas somehow managed to catch himself against the desk. With deliberate moves, he placed the bottle on the hard surface, then spat in his hand the blood he had drawn when the unexpected blow had made him bite his cheek. Wiping his hand against his clothes, he looked Berwald straight in the eye. "Just do what you must."

A red fog was by now clogging Berwald's mind, all his plans of patience and gentleness long forgotten. With sure hands he divested the Norwegian of his tunic and shirt, throwing them carelessly away, Lukas watching him all the while with cold, impenetrable eyes. Berwald could bear that look no longer. Seizing the unresisting Norwegian he pulled him to the bed, where he pushed him face down and climbed on top of him, pining his wrists against the mattress. Lukas had such slim wrists that only one of Berwald's hands was enough to force them together, more angry bruises emerging under the Swede's fingers. But Berwald was beyond caring. He took in the lithe body under him. Sure, the blond hair was a tad lighter, and the body perhaps slimmer and built with finer bones, but as he laid with his face buried against the bed, Lukas could easily pass for Tino. His lost Tino. With one swift movement he pulled down the smaller nation's pants, then released his own hard member and pushed it into Lukas, without any preparation. All reaction he obtained from the Norwegian was a sharp intake of breath, but Lukas' knuckles were white as he was clenching his fingers in the sheets.

It took Berwald no more than a few thrusts to reach completion, and was almost collapsing against the Norwegian, when Lukas let out a sharp, painful cry, and began for the first time to struggle under him. Berwald's eye widened when he saw a dark stain spreading on the coverlet, from under the Norwegian's body. Panicked, he released Lukas and turned him face up. A long gash had somehow appeared on the left side of the smaller nation's chest, oozing blood. Lukas' pupils were blown with pain and his already pale face had turned chalk white. Berwald seized the discarded shirt and pushed it hard against the wound to quench the blood flow. By the time makeshift bandage was getting half drenched, Lukas managed to get a grip on himself and pushed Berwald's hand away, weakly. Berwald did not move, so Lukas tried to push harder.

Berwald looked at him sternly. "I'm only trying to help you."

"I think you've done quite enough," Lukas replied through clenched teeth. Berwald snatched his hand away, as if scalded.

Grasping the blood stained shirt against his chest, Lukas pulled back his pants and staggered to the bathroom. A clean towel hung conveniently by a hook in the door, so Lukas dipped it in water and cleaned his wound as best he could. Thankfully it was not as deep as it was painful, so the blood stopped flowing before it could become dangerous. Lukas discarded his remaining clothes and stepped into the bathtub, making sure the wound remained well above the water line. The water had turned cold long before but he did not care.

Back in the room, Berwald sobbed.

TBC


	3. Part Three

Part Three

_November 1814_

Those nations currently not engaged in war had taken the habit to meet whenever the circumstances allowed and discuss the state of the world (or rather, as Matthias had once pointed out with a mischievous grin, to keep track of each other's schemes). Surely, such a tradition was not easy to upkeep, for distance, bad weather or pressing matters which could not be delayed prevented many nations from undertaking the long journey to foreign countries. So Berwald could only curse his luck when he learned that yes, the following assembly would still be held in spite of the unstable late autumn weather and no, he could not invoke remoteness as an excuse for not attending. Because the Dane, no doubt due to some inane plan he had concocted, had let the world know that it was definitely his turn to play host, and all the nations had accepted readily, glad to avoid the hassle of providing entertainment and accommodation. Berwald dreaded the approaching day when he would be forced to show up on Matthias' territory with a subdued Lukas in tow.

For something was clearly wrong with the Norwegian nation. Defying everything known about the bodies of nations incarnate, endowed with the power to recover from the most grievous wounds ten times faster than any mortal, Lukas' bruises never faded away and the cut on his chest never quite closed, even after all that time. And the stubborn nation was wearing the bruises on his face and wrists like some badges of honor, making the mortals whisper and shake their heads whenever they saw him. It was Lukas' not so subtle way of punishing him, Berwald had decided one evening, after the king himself had asked him awkwardly whether he was abusing the smaller nation and warned him that such behavior would look bad on the stage of foreign affairs. Berwald had gritted his teeth and assured his king that he had not laid a finger on the Norwegian personification, and that the state of Lukas' body was no doubt caused by the war losses his country had suffered. Thankfully the king had let it go at that. And it had not been quite a lie, Berwald mused, for he had not laid a finger on the smaller nation ever since that one night that neither of them wanted to bring up again.

They had reached Stockholm following a strained journey on horse back, through which Lukas had kept to himself, staring at road, aloof and silent like a statue, and an uncomfortable but thankfully short carriage ride during which Lukas had stared at him with blank, cold eyes and Berwald had tried to look at everything except Lukas. Once arrived at the palace Berwald had allowed Lukas to have his pick of the yet vacant quarters. Unsurprisingly the Norwegian had chosen a room as remote as possible from Berwald's own, and kept to it whenever not called by his duties as a nation. Berwald could count on his fingers the number of times he had exchanged with Lukas more than a couple of empty phrases, most of these being sorry attempts at an apology, which the other nation accepted with a nod and then carried on as before. The Norwegian would accompany him to council meetings, carry long conversations regarding his country's politics, sign documents with those bruised hands, and all the while he would give Berwald no more attention than to a piece of furniture.

And now Berwald had to brace himself and intrude for the first time in the Norwegian's quarters, as the voyage to Copenhagen was due the following day and some things needed to be said beforehand. He rapped on the door shortly and waited for the other nation to allow him in.

Lukas was sitting on his bed, next to a wad of bandages and a bowl of water, carefully cleaning the wound on his chest. Berwald winced at the sight of the angry cut, which looked half closed but still bled at times, as the Swede could discern from the tell-tale stains he sometimes noticed on the other nation's shirt. Each time Berwald had secretly wondered how the Norwegian could go from day to day without revealing any sign of pain.

Lukas raised his eyes to meet Berwald's. "Oh, it's you," he said in a bored tone, then picked up a long bandage and began to wrap it around his chest.

Berwald took a chair and sat down facing the Norwegian, with his hands on his knees, all the while keeping a careful distance from the other nation. "Care to tell me what the hell is wrong with you, Lukas?" he asked calmly.

Lukas kept silent until his bandage was secured with a knot, then picked up the shirt he had carelessly dropped on the floor and answered, without looking at Swede. "Why are you asking questions which you can figure out by yourself?"

Berwald drew a deep sigh. "What more do you need me to do or say to make you understand that I regret deeply the way I acted towards you that night? I've apologized countless times, I've treated you like an honored guest and heeded your opinion in all matters concerning Norway, and yet all you do in return is either mock me or ignore me."

Lukas raised an eyebrow at the Swede's unusually long speech. "I don't recall having been anything but civil with you, Berwald."

The Swede took another deep, calming breath. "I've been long tired of your charades. You know very well what the entire court has been whispering behind my back these past months. We signed a treaty that binds me to offer you and your people protection and yet everyone thinks I'm hurting you behind closed doors. Starting today you will stop shaming me." He stood up, strode towards Lukas and wrested the cross-shaped pin from the Norwegian's hair. Long, golden strands fell free, masking the bruises on Lukas' face. Berwald slammed the pin down on the bedside table hard enough to make Lukas wince. "Tomorrow morning we are leaving for Copenhagen. You will keep your forehead covered, wear gloves at all times and keep doing so until you figure out what's wrong with your body."

Lukas jumped to his feet, took a step back and bowed deeply. "What else should I do for you, my lord?" he asked with a mocking sneer. "Clean your boots, feed your dogs and warm your bed at night?"

_Lord, give me patience, _thought Berwald, then replied in an equally haughty voice. "No, it won't be necessary."And without adding anything more, he left the room.


	4. Part Four

Part Four

Berwald frowned slightly while appraising the smaller nation from head to toe. They were standing in a corner of Copenhagen's busy harbor, waiting for their carriage to arrive. Their ship had made port in the small hours of morning, and Lukas, on no account an early riser, was watching sullenly the steady flow of people. True to Berwald's orders, the Norwegian had donned a pair of soft, brown leather gloves and had let his hair fall free. A couple of rogue strands kept obscuring his eyes, and Lukas would brush them away each time with an exasperated sigh, only to have them blown back by the chilled Danish wind. Muttering a curse about Danish punctuality, Lukas shifted his frozen feet on the snowy cobblestones, and Berwald smiled inwardly when he realized that the Norwegian was instinctively trying to protect himself from the bad weather by using Berwald's bulkier body as a shield against the wind.

"Perhaps the road was blocked with ware wagons," Berwald pointed at the seemingly unending row of dock workers pushing wheeled platforms laden with crates.

"Yes, or maybe the horses stumbled, a wheel broke off and the carriage toppled over that halfwit Dane," Lukas muttered darkly. "But," he added, catching sight of an obviously intact carriage progressing towards them, "we don't have such luck."

* * *

The first snow had fallen weeks before, followed by the second and the third, which hurried feet had trampled into a cold, grey muck. Once the carriage had rolled up the driveway, avoiding the castle's central courtyard, and paused next to the side entrance which the nations liked to use when they did not want their arrival to cause much fuss, Lukas opened the door and jumped down, only to land feet first in a puddle of half-frozen mud. The Norwegian appraised the mess on his boots with disgust, and then turned with the same look in his eyes to Matthias, who had just made his appearance at the top of the small flight of stairs.

"Damn it, Matthias, have you people run out of shovels?" he growled.

"Cmon Norge, we had sleet all night long, you'll get to clean up once I've shown you to your...room..." The Dane's last words were addressed to the empty air, for Lukas had shoved him aside and gone in, slamming the door behind him. Nonplussed, Matthias stared at the door, and then at Berwald, the two nations sharing the same look, at the same time exasperated and resigned. Two seconds later they broke contact and coughed embarrassedly, disconcerted by the unusual feeling of having found a common ground.

"Well then," Matthias combed a hand through his hair which stood in its usual gravity-defying mess, "we'd better head in as well before it begins to snow again." Berwald joined him on the topmost stair but made no move to open the door, pausing instead to scowl down at the other nation.

"Is there anything you need to tell me before we go in, Køhler?"

Matthias narrowed his eyes. He hated it that the Swede was taller than him, though not by much, and more so when Berwald was trying to use his height to his advantage in an intimidation game. "Except that after all these centuries you still have the charm of a half-dead troll, nothing else comes to mind, _Oxenstierna_."

Berwald clenched his fists but ignored the insult. "You seem to forget how well I know you, Dane, and I can tell that you're behaving too friendly, too early. There's something brewing in that thick skull of yours and I warn you now to give up on whatever you're planning."

Matthias offered him his cockiest grin. "Or perhaps I've reached the wisdom of old age and I desire to forgive and forget."

Berwald scoffed. "As if. You have twenty-four hours to prove your worth, Dane. Our ship back leaves tomorrow morning."

Matthias' grin did not fade. "Your trust brings me such joy," he declared and pushed the door open, making way for the Swedish nation to enter first. Silently they crossed the long corridor which in earlier days used to serve as headquarters for the palace guards, and emerged in the hall, a large, open space richly furnished with thick carpets, carved wooden tables and upholstered benches. Both nations stopped short and cursed under their breath when they came upon Lukas, locked in a glaring contest of his own.

* * *

Hosting an assembly of nations incarnate requires infinite wisdom and a sense of strategy worthy of the most brilliant warlords in history, for many nations own a long history of discord and resentment. Therefore they have to be carefully quartered, with their preferred pastimes painstakingly taken into consideration, lest those less inclined to feel friendly towards one another should meet on a common path with no witnesses to keep them from near bloodshed. All things considered, Lukas was hardly surprised when the Kingdom of England made his entrance in the hall.

Lukas had rushed to escape both the unfriendly weather and the Dane's inane chatter, but once inside he found himself at a loss of where to go. He could not make use of his old quarters, for he had shared the same rooms with the Dane since the 1500s. He dismissed the thought of searching for Emil, it was too early for the Icelandic boy to be up and about. Hell, given the choice, even Lukas would have been sound asleep in his bed, and not standing in Matthias' hallway half covered in mud. Therefore the sight of the English nation impeccably dressed in a brown tailcoat and with a steaming cup of tea in his hand did nothing to brighten his morning.

Judging from his latest encounter with the Norwegian, Arthur assumed he had come upon an easy prey and took in the Norwegian's disheveled looks with a smirk. "Had I known that it would be allowed for lesser nations to mingle with their betters, I would not have bothered to make an appearance."

For a moment, Lukas considered giving the Englishman a black eye to match his incredibly thick eyebrows, but decided against wasting his already diminishing energy for such an unworthy cause. Instead he reclined nonchalantly against a nearby table and measured the other nation with an apathetic look. "Then you've clearly been misinformed, my dear Arthur, for everyone here is already aware that Matthias managed somehow to slip an invitation to one embittered nation who had his sorry behind kicked one too many times in his youth."

The taller Nordics had arrived just in time to witness the exchange, which threw Matthias in an uncontrolled fit of laughter. "That's my Norge," he hollered, punching Berwald in the arm and earning himself a dirty look from both the Norwegian and the Swede.

Arthur deemed himself a gentleman through and through, and he would have surely kept true to his standards at all times, had it not been for the two thorns in his otherwise not so sensitive side - France and the Viking invasions. So finding himself alone with the three former Vikings, once again the end point of their mockery, must have brought up dire memories indeed, for he lost all of his well-studied composure and, with a quick flick of his hand, he threw the contents of his teacup in Lukas' face.

Lukas hissed at the unexpected contact with the still hot liquid, but without missing a beat he licked his lips and offered to the other nation an almost perfect replica of the Dane's wolfish grin. "I see your taste in beverage has not improved over the years. Next we meet I will let you sample my coffee."

By then even Matthias stopped laughing, and took a menacing step towards the Englishman, followed suit by Berwald. "Didn't you have some place else to be, Arthur?" he asked sweetly.

The English nation slammed his now empty cup on the table and straightened his back. "Someday," he declared before turning on his heel, "all of you shall fall and I will be there to bear witness and rejoice."

Lukas threw one last look at the retreating nation, and then shrugged. Without thinking he lifted his had to brush back his drenched hair, but on a warning glance from the Swede he checked himself and let his hand fall back.

Matthias decided to break the silence. "You needed to change clothes anyway, Norge…"

Lukas sighed. "Matthias?"

"Yes, Norge?"

"Stop talking, my brain is wilting."

"But, Norge!" Matthias exclaimed in a hurt tone.

"On a second thought, tell us where our rooms are, and then shut up."

"I was about to show you there, Norge…"

Lukas had to suppress a strong urge to slam his head against the wall. "I used to live here, Dane, unless you built an entire new wing during the past year I should manage it by myself."

"North wing, one floor up from Ice's room, but…"

Lukas cut him short. "See, it wasn't that difficult. Now make something useful with yourself and have somebody bring in our luggage. Thanks to the two biggest idiots in the entire Europe I find myself in need of spare clothes." With one last warning look at the Danish nation, he headed for the staircase, followed by a secretly amused Berwald.

Halfway up the stairs, a sudden, uneasy feeling made the Swede turn his head, in time to see Matthias stare after the Norwegian nation with his lips drawn in a thin line and a sterner look on his face than Berwald had seen in a long, long while.

TBC


	5. Part Five

_Author's note: I would like to thank LadyDays, Miri-chan, the anonymous guest and Soul bird for their reviews, and everyone for the favs and views I received for this story, I'm really happy to know that someone is actually enjoying what I write. _

_For Soul bird: I'm trying to update regularly for sure, but I'm getting close to the end of the story and I needed to clear my head a little, to make sure I'm writing it right. I hope you won't be disappointed with how this chapter turned out (and so you know, you gave me the necessary nudge to have it finished today)._

* * *

Part Five

The two Nordic nations found the way to their quarters without further unwanted encounters, Lukas leading them up two flights of stairs and through several corridors. He finally paused in front of two similar looking doors. "This should be it," he said, without turning to the other nation, "take your pick."

Berwald shrugged and reached for the doorknob closest to him, but when seeing Lukas hesitate and then turn on his heel to leave, he grabbed the smaller nation's arm. Lukas yanked his arm away and threw a withering look at the Swede, who did not even flinch.

"Where are you going?" he asked sternly.

"To find my brother whom I haven't seen for more than a year, do you have anything against it?" the Norwegian replied.

"Actually I do," Berwald answered, pretending he hadn't noticed the smaller nation's quickly hidden scowl. "I don't want you wandering through the palace alone. I have a gut feeling that Matthias is going to do something stupid."

Lukas looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Berwald, of course that oaf has some senseless plan in his head, I know him as well as you do, even better maybe. That does not change the fact that we're surrounded by other nations, countless mortals and even the Danish royal family, for fuck's sake! Matthias is as bound by laws as the rest of us. What could he do?"

"Regardless," Berwald said in a tone that did not accept resistance, "I want you to keep to your room until the reception this evening. You will surely see Emil then."

Lukas knew when he was defeated, but he did not have to act civil about it. "Fine," he snapped. "Then you'd better bring me breakfast. And don't forget the coffee". He strode to his room and disappeared behind the door, with a loud slam. Left alone, Berwald shook his head and wondered, not for the first time, what was the miracle that kept doors (and other various pieces of furniture) still intact in a building that hosted both the Norwegian and the Dane.

* * *

The worst thing was, Lukas mused, that he actually found the thought of spending the rest of the day in peace and isolation appealing, albeit for a different reason. There was something deeply disturbing in coming back to a place so familiar, with Matthias seemingly at his usual insolent self, so far from the wreck of a man he had left behind. It was not Matthias' apparent indifference that was eating him though, far from it, for the man's eyes spoke a whole different story to those who knew him as well as Lukas did. Out of the three former Vikings, Matthias had always been the blunt one, the one who had allowed his feelings be loudly known to anyone and anywhere, so watching him hide behind the carefully constructed mask of his old self unnerved Lukas to no end.

The Norwegian sighed and began to undo the buttons of his damp coat, discarding it in a corner of the small vestibule, together with his gloves and mud-covered boots, before stepping on the soft carpet. The hot liquid had soaked all the way to his shirt and bandages, so he removed both items, wincing when he touched the sore flesh. He kicked off his socks and tread barefoot to the dressing table, where he had been left a full pitcher next to a porcelain bowl, and, lowering his head above the basin, he poured a steady stream of water in his hair until it felt clean. Trickles of water ran down his spine as he straightened his back and studied his reflection in the mirror. Inscrutable indigo eyes gazed back from his blank face, and for a moment he wondered when exactly in the passage of centuries had his mask become so much of a second nature that it did not slip even when he was facing only himself. Half uncovered by the wet strands, his bruise stood out against his pale skin, and the half-scarred wound cut an angry outline across his chest. Lukas raised his hand and traced the jagged outline. In spite of what Berwald believed, he had never willed it to linger, and was as bewildered as the Swede by its persistence. Yet again, he wondered what twisted corner of his mind was willing to punish his body so, for as much as he tried to dismiss the persisting injuries as nothing more than wounds carved into his flesh by some deep wrong within the nation's spirit, he knew that for once they were his own to bear.

A loud crash outside brought him out of his introspection, and Lukas waited impatiently until the noises and the servants' voices died out from his antechamber. He peeked in. His trunk was standing against the wall, and the dirty clothing had been taken away. Lukas knelt and opened the leather buckles, rummaging for a clean shirt and a roll of bandages. But, as he sat down on the bed with the fresh dressing in his hands, a wave of fatigue overtook him. He should bind his wound, he knew, for it tended to bleed out at odd times, but what harm would it bring to close his tired eyes for just a minute? He let himself sink down, the naked skin on his back relishing the velvety feel of the bed covers.

When Lukas woke up, the room was dark and he panicked at the warm cocoon enveloping him and hindering his moves, until he realized it was just a blanket. He peeled it off, made his way blindly to the shelf where he remembered having seen some candles, and managed to light them without much fumbling. Now that he felt fully awake, he could smell coffee, and turned to discover that a tray had been left on a nearby table, with a large cup and a plate of biscuits next to a folded piece of paper. Lukas put the candlestick down, unwrapped the paper and squinted at the writing inside. _Come see me when you are ready, B. _The Norwegian dropped the letter, grabbed the cup and downed it with a grimace. He hated cold coffee, but he needed it if he was going to make it through the evening. He sank his teeth in a biscuit and went in search of clothes, with a determined look on his face.

* * *

As he followed the Swede in the great hall, Lukas cringed inwardly at the uneasy, almost claustrophobic feeling he had to endure whenever he was forced in the same space with a large gathering of nations incarnate. Reclusive by nature, and perhaps more sensitive than most, the Norwegian was almost painfully aware of the others' combined presence, battering like waves against his mind, and, as Berwald was being drawn unwillingly in a nearby conversation, the smaller nation slipped to a chair and breathed in deeply, in an attempt to clear his senses. Focusing on faces and voices always worked miracles, so Lukas stared intently at the current speaker, the haughty Austrian nation who, encompassed by a small group, was giving in his refined speech an account of the latest congress he had hosted. As he regained a grasp of his surroundings, Lukas realized that the Austrian had become disturbed by his intense scrutiny, and was beginning to stutter, throwing him worried looks. Lukas kept his face blank and stood up. While the Austrian's predicament amused him, he had no wish to spend more time tormenting Roderich, and no interest to hear about yet another exclusive affair where the great powers decided the fate of the world behind closed doors. As he moved on, he caught the red gaze of the Prussian, who was leaning against the mantelpiece and had surveyed the entire scene from his vantage point; with a lopsided smirk, Gilbert raised his wine glass in salute.

Lukas crossed the room in search of one familiar, silver-haired boy, but unsurprisingly it was Matthias who stood out like a sore thumb, with his loud laugh and wild hair, as he was describing something with large gestures to a smaller, blonde nation whom Lukas recognized as Switzerland. The Swiss was listening with his arms crossed and the customary scowl on his face, and when Matthias paused he answered in a sharp tone, but the Dane did not seem to mind; instead his eyes found Lukas and his face lit up with a smile so wide and content, that the Norwegian felt his heart skip a beat. Then Matthias winked and, still holding Lukas' gaze, he pointed with his head somewhere to his left. Lukas raised an inquiring eyebrow but decided to follow the other nation's gesture and, as he turned, he realized why his brother had been nowhere to be seen. The Icelandic boy was sitting in the farthest corner of the hall, half-hidden by a row of drapes, glowering at an open book on his lap with that distinctive look he always wore when he wanted to make sure that it would be crystal clear even for the utmost stranger that wherever he might be, or whatever he might be doing, it was against his will.

Lukas' lips curled up in one of his rare playful smiles, for he knew what those curtains were hiding, and approaching his brother with smooth moves like a cat's, he snatched the oblivious Icelander's wrist and yanked him behind the drapes to a large alcove, thoughtfully furnished with a sofa and chairs. Emil dropped his book with a thud.

"Are you out of your mind?" he hissed, but Lukas knew better than to pay heed to his brother's angry façade and opened his arms, only to find himself losing his balance and falling back on the sofa in a flurry of limbs, as the Icelandic boy rushed at him. The Norwegian gritted his teeth at the weight on his chest - Emil had grown much in the last year, he had noticed, and was almost as tall as himself - but he did not let go of his brother as the boy sobbed quietly against his neck. Lukas waited until the last sob died down, then lifted his brother's head gently and wiped his damp cheeks. Wet, purple eyes stared back at him.

"You never said goodbye," the Icelander accused, and Lukas could only nod, for leaving his brother without a single word of farewell had been weighing heavily on his conscience. "And then I waited and waited week after week to hear from you, and Matthias said you may never come back..."

Lukas clenched his fists. Damn that idiot Dane. "I am bound to Sweden now, Emil, and as such I cannot move freely or follow my own will at all times."

Emil scowled. "I should find that poison they're keeping for rats and pour it in Berwald's drink."

The Norwegian concealed his grin. "Nonsense. Berwald is a nation and you'd only give him a stomach ache or an indigestion at most. Though I can think of one other nation who could use some poison in his beer now and then." He paused. "I trust Matthias has been treating you well."

Emil considered telling his brother about all those times when he would wake up at strange noises in the night and crack his door open to find the Dane wandering the corridors, with a half-empty bottle in his hand and a haunted look in his eyes, or about those first weeks when Matthias refused to have Lukas' belongings cleared out from their rooms and would stare at a discarded book for hours, as if it were the most precious thing left in the world, but those moments were not his to share. Instead he leaned back against the Norwegian and murmured, "Matthias has only been Matthias..."

Lukas could feel that the Icelandic boy was hiding something, but did not press the matter further, content to just sit quietly with his brother again in his arms. And in his bliss he did not realize that the constant drone of nearby voices had been toning down, until it was replaced with angry shouts. Both brothers jumped in surprise, and Lukas grabbed the Icelander's shoulder. "Wait here."

"But..." Emil tried to protest, and Lukas narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

"I said, wait here." He pushed the curtains open and stepped into the room.

TBC


	6. Part Six

_Author's Note: Once again, my thanks go to my kind reviewers and to those who followed this story to the end, I would not have made it so far without you._

* * *

Part Six

One of the things Matthias loved most was seeing Lukas' emotionless features soften, and he hunted the Norwegian's elusive smiles like treasures, so his gaze followed Lukas until he was lost from sight, all the while wishing it had been him, and not the Icelandic boy to have brought out the light in those indigo eyes. Sometimes Matthias longed to be back in the Viking days when life was straightforward and troubles could be sorted out by a swipe of his axe; back then he would have fought tooth and nail against anyone who coveted his possessions, and would have laughed at the mere thought of having his family broken down by words slyly devised by mortals. Oh how he hated words and the mores of a society which prevented him from beating the Swede into a pulp and taking back what was his, and yet it was to those detested words that he'd have to resort if he were to stand a chance of gaining Lukas back. He had made up his mind long before, when rumours of bruised skin and bloodied cloth first reached him - the Swede might believe himself safe from prying eyes in his strong kingdom, but Matthias knew that every mortal had his price - and only the knowledge that Lukas could fight back as fiercely had kept the Dane from marching into Sweden, mortal governments and treaties be damned. Instead he chose to bide his time, turning to a reserve of patience not even he knew he possessed, and now, with Lukas safely out of the way - somehow he'd known that the reclusive Norwegian would not have a roomful of nations witness the reunion with his brother - he excused himself from the Swiss, who by then had begun to question in an irritated tone if he was listening, and moved on to Roderich's side, leaning to whisper in the Austrian's ear.

Roderich threw him an exasperated glare, undoubtedly wondering what had possessed the Dane to interrupt a perfectly tranquil evening, but nodded and drew closer to the centre of the room, where he spoke in a ringing voice.

"My friends, we are being called upon to settle by our rules a matter that concerns nations alone."

Matthias watched as the conversations died down, curious eyes settling on the Austrian. It was not often that nations would submit themselves willingly to the judgement of their peers, though the tradition was old, for the nations incarnate had understood early in the passage of centuries that as a race apart they should expect neither justice nor understanding from the laws of mortals. Still some sort of convention was needed to hold them in check, so all nations had pledged to obey the rulings of the oldest or most powerful among them, and Matthias had made sure to gather together enough influential nations, and then some.

Once all other voices faded, Roderich nodded and took a step back, in silent invitation for the Dane to take over. Matthias ran his eyes over the awaiting nations and began.

"I, the Kingdom of Denmark, accuse the Kingdom of Sweden of abusing his power and mistreating a nation who is bound to him in equal union. As consequence, I request that Norway be released from his duties towards Sweden and be allowed to take residence in a place of his choosing." His eyes found Berwald and dared him to speak, but instead it was Roderich who broke the silence.

"Denmark, this had better not be an attempt at regaining your territories. As you very well know, we are only meant to discuss matters that affect us as individuals, and not to challenge decisions taken by mortals."

Matthias had expected such an attack and turned a cold gaze upon the Austrian. "I trust everyone here understood that my concern is for the personification of Norway, and never did I imply that Lukas should be brought back to Denmark." Though he knew that Lukas would never abandon his brother willingly, and as long as he held Iceland, the Norwegian was sure to follow.

"If this is so, then why is Norway not here to uphold his cause?" Arthur chimed in.

Matthias gritted his teeth when most nations began to speak loudly in approval. The Englishman had somehow managed to ask the one question he could not really answer, and he was not sure himself what misgiving had prevented him from sharing his intention with the Norwegian. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was acting on (albeit believable) rumors, or his own wounded pride that urged him to act alone, or Lukas' past hostility, or rather the certainty that Lukas would never look other nations in the eye and admit to weakness.

"It is not unheard of nor forbidden for nations to raise a plea on behalf of others," Francis made his voice heard above the others' and Matthias inclined his head in thanks, but the Frenchman was too wrapped up in watching Arthur with a challenging smirk on his lips, which the English nation took in with a scowl and a glare that did not bode well for Francis' future well-being. Had there not been so many eyes upon him, Matthias would have broken into a grin of his own, for as sure as he had foreseen Arthur's hostility, he had known that Francis would stand on his side, if only just to further aggravate the Englishman.

The Prussian's rough laughter broke through all of a sudden, making the nations cease their chatter and wince in recognition. Gilbert had kept apart, not leaving his place by the mantelpiece, and his eyes glinted as crimson as the wine in his glass as he watched the gathering.

"What is it Gilbert?" queried Roderich with a disgruntled look on his face, and the Prussian showed his teeth in a mocking smirk.

"Don't mind me Roderich, I was simply recalling the gentle and peaceful way in which our Danish friend ruled over his own little alliance back in the 1400s - what did you call it Matthias, the Kalmar Union?"

A memory of Lukas, bruised yet defiant, torn clothes stained equally with his own and the Dane's blood flashed through Matthias' mind and his fist found a nearby table and smashed into it; in another time and place it would have been Gilbert's smug face instead. The Prussian could not even begin to comprehend those dark years when the three older Nordics had raged and lashed at one another as if all reason had left them, and certainly had no right to throw everything in his face as a petty joke. "If you miss the past so much Prussia, I can bring it back just for you," he spat.

Roderich took it upon himself to step in before the two nations could come to blows. "Stop behaving like an animal Denmark, and you Gilbert might want to refrain from talking if you have nothing useful to say," he spoke in a disgusted voice. "Let us hear what Sweden has to say for himself and make our decision before this entire affair carries on longer than necessary."

Berwald had been on his guard the entire evening but still Matthias managed to surprise him - he would have sooner expected the Danish nation to dig out his old axe and challenge him to a duel. Matthias was too much a warrior and not enough a strategist to stand even a small chance with his charade so, unconcerned about the outcome, Berwald had chosen to remain a silent witness. Surely, he was far from pleased with having his affairs dragged in for public display and idle chatter, but a better time would come to make the Dane pay for it, with less hungry eyes and meddling ears to contend with. Still, Matthias needed to be put back in his place, so Berwald stepped forward and made sure his gaze was well locked with the Dane's, before speaking in a level voice. "I did nothing to Lukas other than what was required of both of us as nations."

Matthias' eyes widened in outrage and his lips twisted in a snarl as he threw himself at the Swede, grabbing a fistful of the other nation's coat. "You are nothing but a god damn bastard Berwald," he growled, poising himself to strike the impassive Swede in the face, but before his fist could connect his arm was yanked forcefully back. "What the bloody fuck?" Matthias swore and released the Swede to turn to his new opponent, only to find himself looking down into Lukas' eyes.

* * *

Stumbling on the two former Vikings locked in a fist fight was neither new nor surprising for the Norwegian, and depending on his mood he would either roll his eyes and walk on, or step in and break them up with a few well-aimed kicks and curses. Either way, one too many nights of tending injured limbs and bruised egos had taught him how destructive both men could be when left on their own devices, so when the first sight that greeted him was Matthias hurling himself at Berwald's throat, he did not pause even for a second to consider the Dane's motivation - although a rather accurate guess was already arising at the back of his mind. Cursing under his breath the gawking nations who appeared more eager to take bets than to break off the fight, Lukas strode resolutely towards the pair and seized Matthias' arm, intent of giving the Dane a piece of his mind, but all words died on his lips when Matthias turned to him only to cup his face with his free hand and claim his mouth with his own.

Lukas' eyes widened under the pressure of the Dane's lips and his blood began to pound dangerously in his veins, every beat clouding his senses more and more, until all he could feel was warm fingers against his skin and the drumming of blood in his temples. A searing heat built up in his chest and exploded in piercing agony against his wound, and Lukas buried his fingers hard in the Dane's arm, a strangled moan escaping his lips. Matthias broke the kiss at once. His eyes were shadowed and his face had turned pale, but he pried his hand gently from Lukas' grasp and knelt in front of the smaller nation, supporting him in his arms. Lukas felt paralysed; all he could do was press his forehead against the Dane's and grit his teeth together, fighting wave after wave of pain, until it mercifully subsided into a dull throb. Lukas opened his eyes to a sapphire gaze full of pity and understanding.

"I know, beloved," Matthias whispered and brushed his hand softly against the Norwegian's chest. His fingers glistened red and Lukas gasped, realizing for the first time how much he had bled. Lukas' hair was drenched with sweat; the Dane brushed back the golden strands, half-knowing what he would reveal, and caressed the bruised skin. "I know, for you and me, we are one." His hands flew at his chest and ripped his coat and shirt open. Stained bandages clung around his torso and Matthias drew at them to uncover the beginning of an open gash.

Lukas took in the sight with astounded eyes, not daring to touch the Dane. _We are one._ A fresh haze descended upon his mind and every fiber of his being screamed at him to let himself fall in Matthias' arms and never let go, to lose himself in the warmth and safety that was Matthias. And yet he hesitated, pulled back by a weak instinct, deeply buried under the deluge of feelings. He bit back a scream of frustration and closed his eyes, burying his fingernails deep in his palms, focusing on the stinging sensation. And all of sudden his mind became crystal clear, and centuries upon centuries flew by him, Matthias by his side always, engulfing him, until out of his own being nothing remained but a shade. His eyes flew open with a new understanding and he gazed at the Dane, his blessing and his curse. _There is no other way_, he thought desperately, and taking a step back he forced his face into an empty mask. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow.

"You should have considered that before selling me away like common wares. Now I belong to Sweden and you and I are sworn enemies Dane, never presume to think otherwise."

Matthias' eyes narrowed in disbelief. He rose slowly to his feet and grabbed Lukas' shoulders in a viselike grip, searching deep into the Norwegian's eyes, but Lukas held his gaze unwaveringly. The Dane's features set into a hard expression and he flung the smaller nation away, watching without moving as Lukas stumbled and Berwald stepped forward to catch him from his fall.

"Fine," he spat venomously before turning on his heel to leave, "spend the rest of your life as Sweden's whore for all I care." With clenched fists he pushed his way through the amassed nations and left the room without caring to close the door behind him.

Only when the Dane disappeared from sight did Lukas become aware of Berwald's supporting arms and of the other nations' petrified looks set upon him. And when his gaze fell on his brother, pale with fear and with his hands clutching the curtains convulsively, Lukas felt all resolve leaving him.

"I can't stay here any longer," he breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Please, let us go."

Berwald nodded and led the Norwegian out, through the dark corridors and to the stables, leaving him alone only to find a coachman and to order to have a carriage ready. He returned to find Lukas punching furiously the stone wall, and he grabbed the smaller nation's wrists to stop him from harming himself, but his gloves were already torn and his knuckles had drawn blood. Lukas snatched his hands away from Berwald's frowning gaze and climbed in the carriage, settling in a corner near the window, and the Swede followed in after asking the coachman to take them to the harbour. They would spend the night on the ship and leave Denmark in the morning.

The lamp hanging outside the carriage window swung left and right and Berwald watched in silence as it made shadows dance on the Norwegian's pale features. Lukas had his eyes closed and was breathing ruggedly, his ruined hands clenched on his lap. It was too dark for Berwald to discern the stain on Lukas' chest, but he assumed the wound had at least ceased to bleed; still, once aboard he would have it cleaned and dressed, regardless of whether the other nation wanted his help or not.

Suddenly, Lukas' eyes snapped open and he fixed Berwald with an impenetrable stare. "We are such fools, Berwald," he spoke, his voice sounding unbelievably calm. "We cut and lash at one another for land and for power and for pride and forsake our own kin, and only when it's too late do we realize what a burden it truly is to spend an eternity alone."

Berwald wished he could say something, anything, to soothe the Norwegian but words failed him. Instead he drew closer, took the other nation's slim hands one by one and removed his torn gloves, then tore his handkerchief in two and bound each half around the bloodied fingers. But as he tied the last knot he became aware that something was amiss and lifted Lukas' hand to look at it in the lamp light, then his gaze crossed the Norwegian's in amazement – the dark marks on his wrist were fully gone.

* * *

Matthias woke the following morning with a blinding headache and the sour aftertaste of alcohol on his tongue. A broken bottle lay in pieces next to the wall and the Dane winced, remembering how he had thrown it at Emil. The Icelandic boy had jumped out of the way with a yelp and then had yelled at the Dane in a tone so alike his brother's, that Matthias had felt a strong urge to pick up a shard and plunge it in his own wrist right then and there.

With a groan, Matthias stood up and took the pitcher from the bedside table – to his relief it was still half full and he drank the water greedily until his thirst was quenched, splashing the remainder on his face. And, as his mind cleared, he realized he could no longer feel the dull pain that had throbbed against his chest until he had fallen asleep in a drunken haze. Frowning, Matthias began to peel off his bandage and approached the mirror.

A thin, white scar split the left side of his chest in two, right where his wound stood open merely hours before. Matthias ran his fingers along it and stared at his own reflection in disbelief.

To his touch, the scar felt as cold as ice.

The End


End file.
